Only one voice was raised in her behalf, but Hector Darcy declared with unblushing effrontery that he voted in her favour, and held to his decision, in spite of all that the others could say. Peggy deplored his want of taste, yet felt a dreary sense of comfort in his fealty. It soothed the ache at her heart, and made her so unconsciously gentle in return that the major’s hopes went up at a bound.
After dinner, chairs were carried into the verandah, and Peggy made no demur when Hector set her seat and his own at a little distance from the rest. Perhaps at heart she was even a little grateful to him for being so anxious to enjoy her society, for no one else seemed to desire it for that moment. Colonel and Mrs Saville were talking contentedly together, Arthur was engrossed with Eunice, Rob—ah, where was Rob? Had he made up his mind never to enter Yew Hedge again? Peggy turned her conversational gift to account, and led the subject so subtly in the way she would have it go, that presently Hector found himself explaining the cause of his brother’s absence, believing that that explanation was entirely of his own offering.
“Rob is busy writing a paper for some magazine or review, and can think of nothing else. You know what he is when he once gets mounted on his hobby! He would have thought it a terrible waste of time to have left his papers to come out to dinner.”
Well, well, the time had been when Rob would not have thought it waste of time to spend an evening with his friend; when not even an article for a review would have prevented him from witnessing the completion of an enterprise in which his partner was interested.
It was a very woe-begone Peggy who crept into bed that evening. Her arms were stiff and sore from their long pressure, there were the deep red marks on her shoulders where the seams had pressed into the flesh, but the ache in her heart was worse to bear than either one or the other. She burrowed her little brown head into the pillow, and the salt tears trickled down her nose.
“Nobody loves me!” she sobbed. “Nobody loves me! Mellicent was right. He loves beetles better than me!”
Chapter Twenty Five.
A week later Arthur’s picnic came off under circumstances of unusual éclat. The extravagant fellow had arranged everything on so luxurious a scale that Mellicent sat in a dream of happiness, building castles in the air, in which she continually drove about in dog-carts, travelled in reserved carriages, and ate luncheons provided by Buzzard. Her plump face assumed quite a haughty aspect, as she mentally acknowledged the salutations of the crowd, and issued orders to flunkies, gorgeous in powder and knee-breeches. It was enough happiness just to sit and think of it, and munch the delicious chocolates which Arthur dispensed among his guests.